Habit
by Dala1
Summary: Commodore James Norrington was thirty-two years old, and he dreamed of breeches the way growing boys dreamed of scantily-clad women. (one-sided NorringtonxElizabeth, other pairings implied)


(standard disclaimer applies)

* * *

Commodore James Norrington was thirty-two years old, and he dreamed of breeches the way growing boys dreamed of scantily-clad women.

They weren't just any breeches – no, they were standard navy-issue, commissioned from the youngest and slimmest marine he could find at the time. Similar to his own, only a bit shorter and snugger. The boy was young, so they'd been new and relatively unstained, stiff to the touch, not yet worn at the knees and seat.

More importantly, the legs within them were not just any legs. They certainly weren't the legs of the boy to whom the breeches rightfully belonged. Instead, they were the legs (and waist and hips and, dare he suggest it, derriere) of one Miss Elizabeth Swann, soon to be Mrs. William Turner, the governor's daughter and his onetime fiancé. At the time of the incident with the breeches, he had not seen her legs since she was a young girl in the habit of tucking her skirts up while she played. He had not really thought about them, hidden as they were by her voluminous dresses. Even when she was standing before him in just a shift, it was mainly the desperation in her eyes that had captured his attention – well, that and the way the thin cotton clung to her modest bosom. If they'd had something suitable aboard for her to wear, it might have been perky nipples winking at him in his dreams.

But instead of a dress, they'd had a uniform, the best fit he could find. He could tell that Weatherby was quite horrified at the idea of his daughter baring her lower half in such a fashion, but she couldn't very well parade about in her undergarment for the rest of the voyage. So James had given her the uniform and the use of his cabin to change into it. Her thanks sounded more like an apology, but James wasn't prepared to think on that just yet.

The ship was attacked before he got the chance to see her in her temporary garments, so he didn't really have the time to think about much of anything else. By the time he'd gotten her safely back, with a strangely somber Will Turner and a frighteningly quiet Jack Sparrow in tow, his thoughts mainly lay with the grievous losses of the night. He saw her in the white shirt and breeches, the red coat bulky over her shoulders, but he didn't really register the sight.

At least not until much later, after they'd returned and he had sent his condolences to the families of the deceased. By then, Sparrow was a free man once again, and so was James. And by then, he sought Elizabeth Swann in his dreams, clad in the breeches and hose and often not much else.

For weeks he suffered these dreams and their inevitable, embarrassing results, hoping they'd go away or at least diminish in potency. Then one night, as he found himself strolling through the less savory parts of town, he came upon a couple embracing beneath a darkened doorway. At first glance it appeared to be two men, a sight with which he was not unfamiliar. However, the golden braid swinging down the one man's back was longer than any sailor's queue he'd see, and come to think of it, no man's hips curved quite like that...

He froze to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of Miss Swann tucked up against her betrothed, arms wrapped around him, mouth locked with his, one shapely leg curled around his calves. It occurred to James that he should have bought that poor marine a new uniform, because clearly, she did not intend to return this one.

By some heavenly power, he managed to tear himself away before they spotted him. Turner's low groan and Elizabeth's sharp gasp followed him down the street, all the way to his own bed, where he flung his body down and stroked himself with trembling hands.

Something, he decided after he'd reached a most intense completion, was going to have to be done.

* * *

"And what might ye be needin' tonight, sir?" The bower mistress dimpled at the fine-dressed gentleman approaching her desk. He was a handsome devil, with dark hair and startlingly green eyes, but he was so clearly nervous that she felt a twitch in her own stomach. At least he didn't look cruel, she reasoned – her girls knew how to deal with the shy ones.

The man cleared his throat, fingers tightening around the paper-wrapped package he carried. "I – pardon me, madam, but I so rarely use these – such facilities –"

"Mmm-hmm," said Nan with a sympathetic nod. "No worries, sir, I promise we're jest as clean an' neat as ye please – quiet-like, too." She glanced at his left hand, suspecting he had a wife who was sparing with the pleasures of her bed, but he wore no ring.

"That's...good," said the man, shifting from foot to foot. "Because, you see, I have something of a request..."

"Ah, a speciality," Nan replied, making a note on her ledger. "Whatever we c'n provide, we shall." She wondered what sort of request he meant. Perhaps he wanted a large girl, or a young one, or one that'd tie him up for the ride. They got all sorts of types in her establishment, and commonplace as this one had seemed at first, she knew there was no accounting for taste. He had a bit of a salt-scent around him; perhaps he even wanted one of the boys. The sailors often did, and they'd had something of a regular in earlier tonight, though he was about as close to this one in appearance as was a hedgehog to a robin.

To her surprise, he unwrapped the brown package and shook out a pair of plain breeches. "If you could provide a – a lady who would be willing to wear these?"

* * *

Several hours later, Mary brought her bundled-up sheets outside to be laundered in the morning. She found Richard there, one of Nan's prizes, a delicate-featured, doe-eyed confection of a young man. He was dumping his shirt in the pile, and he smiled his bright boy's smile up at her.

"Good night, Mary?"

"'Twas all right," she remarked. "Had a john what wanted me t' wear men's breeches."

Richard cocked his eyebrows up at the large, feathered buccaneer's hat on his head. "Nowhere near as funny as th' queer bloke forever requestin' _this_ affair. It bloody itches."


End file.
